


The Whole Of The Moon

by TheMorningGlory



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: AU, An Original Short Story, Betty has family in The Hamptons, Betty likes her best friend...but will he return her feelings?, Betty lives in an old Victorian mansion, Clean Romance, Confessions, F/M, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, I saved this one and was waiting for the right time to post it, Name After The Song By The Waterboys, Religious Imagery and Symbolism (Featuring The Old Testament), The Coopers are Archaeologists, Think of old houses and illustrious ancestors, bughead - Freeform, evocative of Gothic lit, pining! Betty, tender moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:47:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25179442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMorningGlory/pseuds/TheMorningGlory
Summary: The wind moves through the trees in the distance, shaking them in the darkness. They walk hand in hand as the breeze billows around their limbs, reminding them that winter is nigh, and they won’t be doing this anymore – taking long forays into the night – it will be far too chilly for such excursions. When the snow hits, and it will – especially in this part of the country, which is far up in the Northeast – then they’ll both be confined indoors, reading and trying to ward of the freezing temperatures with a heap of blankets and a dream of warmer months.___Because her parents are Archaeologists, Betty finds herself alone a lot, staying in the Estate that her family has called home for ages. One weekend she feels especially lonely, so she decides to invite her friend Jughead over for a few hours to give him a tour of the house and keep her company.
Relationships: Betty Cooper & Jughead Jones, Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18
Collections: 8th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	The Whole Of The Moon

_the house was dark and full of shadows_

_barren and unyielding_

_until my kinsman redeemer came_

* * *

The house was a shadow.

From a distance, it had the appearance of a sliver of wood nestled between two trees.

At the last light of day, the trees shadows took on the appearance of two tiger-like claws, stretching forth their branches across the expanse of the house, whose exterior was well-worn from age.

The result, inevitably, was an exterior that was cloaked in the thinnest web of gray – nearly invisible to the naked eye, and, yet, when one would take a step back from the house, it seemed as though its facade was imprisoned in a cocoon of shadows.

So, too, were the inhabitants within – if only for a fortnight; they’d leave easily in the morning, forgetting, almost always, that they had ever been confined inside a house of such splendor.

Come dawn, the ghastly appearance of the trees dueling branches - like aged hands extending their reach from beyond – had all but shrunk down to nothingness, becoming a four-foot shadow at best, leaving the high gables on the upwards portion of the house free from all traces of darkness.

And the houses frontal stained-glass windows, whose colors looked like fire against the light of the noonday sun –

Why, they would shine and shine.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Our story commences with a single, burning candle.

Its location? The base of a bay window, which is situated near the easternmost wing of the tired, antebellum estate.

On this night, a night like any other – it was a Saturday, early November – Betty Cooper is eagerly awaiting the arrival of her friend, Jughead Jones.

Her back is against the wall, knees bent; one hand is resting firmly against the book on her lap, while the other is stroking her cat, Caramel. On occasion, she glances out the window from her seat, hoping to see her friends’ affable silhouette behind the glass. When he fails to appear, she gazes upwards at the night sky. She spots the big dipper somewhere in the distance, grins to herself, and then goes back to reading the second half of the _Song of Solomon_.

Her face is bright, and her eyes are even brighter, partly because she’s smiling – that, and the ivory candle at the edge of the window in her bedroom is beaming its rays upward and out, enveloping the edge of her face and the ends of her hair in a dull, golden hue.

The house is asleep, but she’s awake. She sighs and pushes her back firmly against the pillow behind it. Soon, she shuts her eyes. She is just about to doze off when she hears a simple, yet firm, _rap_ _–_ _tap_ _–_ _tap_ to her right.

Betty grins and tosses her book aside, shuffling from her seated position until she’s sitting upright, balancing her weight upon bended knees. Her eyes meet Jughead’s and he gives her a kind of half-smile as he waits patiently for her let him in. He rests his elbows in the middle of the ladder and watches her go to work. She unlatches the window carefully and pushes each glass panel outwards and into the night. A light gust of wind whips through his hair and catches the tips of her own blonde tresses as the two of them stare at one another with bated breath.

Jughead is the first to break the silence. “Hi.”

Betty’s grin disappears, replaced, instead, by a shy smile. “Hi,” she echoes, pressing her lips together.

The two of them exchange a look before Jughead continues.

“Well,” he says, gripping both sides of the ladder as he looks up at her again, “aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“Oh.” Betty’s green eyes widen as she looks down into the garden. It’s dark. In fact, the whole garden is covered in shadows. Then, she looks back at her window seat and moves aside to make room for him. “Come in,” she says ardently.

Jughead acquiesces. He climbs a few precarious steps upward, murmurs something along the lines of ‘here goes,’ and proceeds to push the top half of his body through the wide window, the ladder shaking precariously below his feet as he does so. When his knees hit the soft, velvet cushions on the window seat, he heaves a collective sigh of relief and shimmies the rest of his body through the window. Then, right as he’s very nearly inside, the ladder, which was already a bit wobbly to begin with, shakes like a drowsy sailor standing atop an oceanfront liner and passes out for the night. It’s wooden frame careens to the left-hand side of window and falls. It plops down into the dirt below next to Betty’s mother’s rose garden and lies still for the remainder of the night.

“ _Oops_ ,” Jughead says, looking down at the ladder at nearly the same time as Betty does. When their eyes meet again, he states the obvious. “So, I guess I’ll be hanging out here for a little while longer,” he tells her. “Hope that’s okay?”

There is pregnant pause before Betty answers, considering her words carefully. “Of course,” she says softly. “I mean, unless you need to leave soon, in which case –”

“ _Hey_.” Jughead silences her by grabbing her shoulder. “I don’t,” he says in earnest as their eyes meet in the darkness of her bedroom. He squeezes her shoulder once and releases his grip on it. Then, to avoid any more awkwardness, he averts his gaze from hers and looks around her bedroom. “Wow,” he remarks, stepping onto the carpeting carefully in his faded black converse. His blue eyes widen as he stands up and straightens his back. “So, this is how the other half lives,” he says in quiet amazement. He shoves his hands into his coat pocket and takes it all in.

The first thing he notices is the reddish-brown wallpaper, which, from floor to ceiling, is bespeckled with a shimmery fleur-de-lis motif that glistens as his eyes explore the room in full. The designer is William Morris, he assumes, although he’s not entirely sure. Soon, his eyes flit to an ornate, wooden dollhouse on the left, which has been relegated to the corner of the room – clearly, it’s only for show instead of play. There are a few shelves of books behind the dollhouse, which aren’t decorated _nearly_ as meticulously as the rest of her bedroom (evidenced from a large stack of papers shoved haphazardly into the center of one of them), and, yet, her desk seems largely untouched. There is a single coffee mug holding her pens and pencils with _Jadore!_ scrawled across its middle in bright, red fuchsia, but little else. And lastly, the bed. His eyes stop in the center of the room and move upwards. It’s nice, he thinks as his eyes stare at the voluminous quilt in the center – on one side, a moon, and the other, a radiant, yellow sun. When he looks past the bed, he sees the dark sky just behind the round, panoramic window.

“This is quite a room,” Jughead remarks genially as he turns around to face Betty. When he does, though, he notices that she’s strangely silent. There is an indiscernible expression in her green eyes as she averts her gaze from his and stares into the distance. “Hey,” he says, concern evident in his voice. “Is something the matter?”

“What?” she says suddenly, looking up at Jughead. Seeing the warmth in his eyes makes her swallow hard; she studies them for a second longer before he breaks the silence between them.

“You looked like you were upset,” he says in observation, “or at the very least, lost in your own thoughts.”

“Sorry.” Betty grins. “I guess I do that a lot,” she says in admission. “I tend to daydream at the most inopportune times.”

Jughead raises an eyebrow at her. “ _Tend_ to?”

“ _Jughead_.”

He grins.

There’s something about the lighting in her room – in _this_ room, he thinks – something inexplicable. Perhaps it’s the way the light dances across her face, and, yet, conceals his own. In fact, it makes him feel just a little bit bolder than he’d normally be, even with a friend. He swallows and in a moment of courage, he takes a quick, calculated step forward until the two of them are standing a hair’s breadth apart. 

“ _So_ ,” he says emphatically, “when are you going to give me a tour of the infamous Cooper manor?”

Betty can hardly contain the excitement in her voice. “I thought you’d never ask.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

They stop in front of an oil painting in the corridor first.

Jughead, whose head is suddenly spinning because of what he sees he sees, can hardly contain his reaction; he pulls his head back in surprise, squints, and proceeds to take a closer look. It’s a standard portrait for all intents and purposes, and the subject in question appears to be a young woman somewhere in her early twenties sitting on a bench next to a bed of full, white roses. Her pose, though static, appears to have the same mannerisms as his petite friend standing beside him.

And, he thinks, grinning when the lighting finally catches _just right_ – there’s that same _smile_.

Jughead squints. “Is that _you?_ ”

Betty purses her lips together, suppressing a grin. “Why?”

“Because she looks just like you,” he replies in disbelief, still staring at the painting.

“Does she?”

Jughead nods. “It’s rather unnerving,” he says in admission, touching the edge of the frame with his freehand.

“Well she should,” she says teasingly. “After all, she is _my grandmother_.”

“Ah,” Jughead says, as if the answer had been an obvious one. “Yes, I can see it now.”

When he finally tears his gaze from the painting, their eyes meet in the darkness, and he studies her – her eyes are a mystery, and her face, an open book, and when she takes a timorous step forward, the shadows in the hallway envelope the lower half of her face and neck, shielding it from view.

“What?” she asks nervously, anticipating his response. She looks up at him in surprise, watching his expression vacillate as if he’s unsure of what to say; his expression grows serious for a moment, then softens just as quickly. The change, though subtle, causes her to swallow.

“Nothing,” he says simply, an obvious grin spreading across his face.

Betty hopes he can’t see the burst of blush appearing on her neck and cheeks, which feel warm suddenly despite the early autumn weather.

“Shall we continue?” she asks.

“Lead the way.”

.

.

.

.

.

.

Light from the dull moon escapes, somehow, emitting its sallow brightness into the expanse of the library in the form of a long, white spotlight. It drags across the floor, which is mostly wood anyways, with some sections concealed by the occasional Persian rug, and disappears at the expanse of the open doors behind them.

Meanwhile, Jughead’s eyes are glued to a book: _The Gift of the Magi_. He struggles to read the fine print despite the lamp overhead, whose bulb seems bound and determined to stream light somewhere into the spacious room, which is so dark in some corners that its shadows seem as endless as the rows of books above him.

“Hey, Betty,” he says, sounding a bit distracted by the contents in his hands. When she doesn’t respond, he turns in her general direction, cradling the spine of the book. “Did you see this?” he says excitedly. “It’s a first edition.”

He hopes to see her smiling back at him, but instead his question is met with silence – she doesn’t respond. He finds her standing at the edge of a window, which overlooks the backyard and garden below. Her hands are clutching one of the low-hanging curtains and she’s looking at something or another, peering into the night, a little lost in thought, her eyes fixated on an invisible horizon line somewhere in the distance.

He re-shelves the book and approaches her calmly.

Her back is still turned to him when she says, her voice barely a whisper, “I wish my parents weren’t gone all the time.” She sighs wistfully and continues gazing out the window.

His hand is on her shoulder now, and before she turns to face him, he thinks about what to say – that _they’re archaeologists, and it comes with the line of work, and, unfortunately, is to be expected_ , but in doing so, he knows he’d sound patently dismissive of her feelings – namely, that, and in all likelihood she’s feels a bit abandoned, he assumes – and he doesn’t want that, so he says, instead, “I know.”

“I don’t like being here alone all the time,” she whispers. “It makes me feel forgotten.”

She can feel her eyes misting over, so she blinks – once, twice – but what she doesn’t expect to feel a moment later is his hand encircling hers. He closes it around her palm and gives it a firm squeeze. Then, he lets go and she finally turns around to look him in the eyes.

“ _You_ are not forgotten,” he tells her emphatically. “Not even for one moment.”

With that, she smiles. “I’m not?”

“Never.”

Betty decides that the moment to tell him how she feels about him may come sooner rather than later. With the way he’s looking at her now, she isn’t even sure how she managed to wait this long and _not_ say anything.

She swallows, tilting her head to one side, her voice sounding a little bit coy she whispers, “Can I show you something?”

“Isn’t that what we’ve _been_ doing?” he teases. “You’ve already shown me half the house.”

“Yes, but –”

Jughead’s brows furrow. “What is it?” he asks, his expression quizzical.

Betty looks at the two double doors, and then back at him. “Follow me,” she says, holding out her hand to him, a sly grin spreading across her face as she adds, “ _If_ you can keep up.”

Soon, they’re both running. 

“ _Betty!_ ” Jughead yells behind her, unable to hide his exasperation as he follows the blonde as far as her lean legs will carry her, “where are we going?!”

“You’ll see,” she yells back to him, grinning.

They make their way down a narrow corridor, with Betty effectively pulling him behind her as he tries to keep up. They skirt past several fully furnished bedrooms, a quaint study, and one extremely winding staircase before they end up outside, alone together in the cold, standing on the porch in the dead of night.

“ _Betty_ ,” Jughead chastises, still breathing heavily from the unexpected exercise, “did we _really_ have _to_ _run?”_

Betty grins. Then, she let’s go of his hand and begins to twirl.

As Jughead watches her spin, the tiny lights at the far end of the porch catch on the ends of her pleated skirt. Her shadow, though faint, stretches across the lawn and disappears somewhere into the verdant trees up ahead, which appears dark and nebulous from his vantage point.

Betty stops twirling abruptly, and, after a fleeting second, regains her balance.

Jughead shoves his hands into his coat pockets. “So,” he begins with a smirk, “is this what you wanted to show me?” he asks, adding, “you, _dancing_ beneath the moonlight?”

“Not quite,” she says, smoothing the creases in her skirt.

He grins. “So, what is it I’m supposed to be looking at anyways?”

“This,” Betty says, motioning at the area around her, “Is essentially my writing hideaway. Anytime I can’t figure out what to write next, or what I’m trying to say, I come out here and try to clear my head.”

Jughead’s eyes are locked with hers. “And does it work?” he asks.

“Mostly,” she says, evading a more in-depth answer. “I mean, there isn’t always a quick fix for writer’s block, but a change of scenery can, and often does help.”

“And when it doesn’t?”

“I call you,” she whispers. 

He’s surprised. “Me?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. “Why me?”

“Because you’re the only one that really listens to me.”

It happens so fast that she doesn’t have time to think, really. Jughead reaches downwards and Betty swallows. She feels his hand tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. She thinks something else is about to happen, but, instead, he says something.

“You look cold,” he says softly.

“Oh.” She feels her cheek; it is cold, but the fleshy part of her hand feels even cooler somehow against her exposed skin.

“Here, take my jacket,” he offers, shrugging his plaid coat off. He wraps it around the length of her back, and as she takes hold of it, he helps her tiny arms into its oversized cotton sleeves. “Should we end the tour early?” he questions. “As much as I want to see the rest of this antebellum estate, it’s becoming unbearably cold out here.”

Grateful for the added layer of warmth, Betty gazes into his eyes intently and smiles. “No, there’s just one more thing. It’s just there.” She points at a few dark shadows confined to the edge of the yard, one of which appears to be a statuesque stone carving. “I’ll be quick,” she adds, tugging him along. “I promise.”

The wind moves through the trees in the distance, shaking them in the darkness. They walk hand in hand as the breeze billows around their limbs, reminding them that winter is nigh, and they won’t be doing this anymore – taking long forays into the night – it will be far too chilly for such excursions. When the snow hits, and it will – especially in this part of the country, which is far up in the Northeast – then they’ll both be confined indoors, reading and trying to ward of the freezing temperatures with a heap of blankets and a dream of warmer months.

They stop, finally, in front of an oxidized metal fence – there is a cemetery that lies just behind it, and Jughead’s gaze is immediately drawn to the statue in front of it, an angel in repose.

“So,” he says to her. “What am I looking at this time? Coopers through the ages?”

She grins. “Yes, actually. One of the oldest Coopers is buried here.”

“Seriously? I mean, I knew the house was dated, but I didn’t think it was that old.”

“Yes.”

Jughead squints to take a closer look. “And just how long do you think they’ve been sleeping here? he asks. “I can’t quite make out the dates on some of the tombstones.”

“They aren’t sleeping,” she tells him. “Don’t be facetious.”

“Oh, but they are. Shall I blow a trumpet and wake them up?”

“ _Jughead_.”

She turns to look at him. Her hair is blowing in the wind as their eyes meet in the darkness – he smiles.

“I wasn’t being flippant,” he says softly. “I was just…trying to lighten the mood.”

“I know,” she replies.

Betty’s expression grows somber as they stare at one another in the darkness. She glances back at the plot of land, the silence between them broken only by the sound of some overzealous crickets making their presence known. She’s thinking about what he said, but more importantly about the meaning behind it.

“I’d like to think that,” she tells him finally. “That one day – be it the last day on earth – that everyone asleep in the dust will, at long last, wake up.” Betty shivers and wraps her arms around herself, unaware of just how decidedly anxious she appears.

He senses something is still bothering her, something other than her relative’s old tombstones.

“Are you alright?” he asks quietly.

“I’m fine.” She glances at him and he smiles in the darkness.

“Come on,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of the house. “Let’s go inside.”

He offers her his hand as a gesture of goodwill, and she takes it gratefully.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Time has a funny was of making itself scarce when one wants to live in a moment forever. Years from now, when Jughead and Betty bring their own children to the very same house for a visit, they will find themselves sitting in the same spot, resting their tired bodies on the couch – they’ll be relieved because their children are _finally_ asleep.

They’ll talk, and laugh, and kiss, enjoying the short-lived moment that they have alone. Tiredness will inevitably overtake them, and they’ll doze off, each waking only for the briefest of seconds when the house demands attention – the stairs will creak, the rafters will pop, and the echo of the wind will resound in the innermost part of the house. It will be in that moment – the moment when the house seems alive, and not merely just there to exist to hold their sleeping bodies and significant family relics – that Jughead will wake with a start. He’ll smell the driftwood in the fireplace, and the faintest hint of autumn in the air, as the fire blazes in front of him and he feels the chill of the outside creeping inward. He will yawn and reposition himself against the couch cushion, as he watches the log burn, and that’s when he will feel his sleeping wife’s head against his chest. He’ll look down, smile, and swear he’s sixteen again – and for about a second, he will be.

But for now, we have the moment preceding the memory.

The fire, which is burning steadily in the fireplace now, overshadows the pair with its brightness as they watch it from the couch.

There are dreams resting upon their shoulders, invisible promises of tomorrow – things they are thinking but dare not say – as the two of them sit impossibly close, each resting against the other, watching as the embers fall from the fireplace, which disappear as they fly through the air.

“Do you do this often?” Jughead inquires, watching the fire, eyes transfixed on its brightness.

Her eyes feel sleepy as she pushes her back into the couch. “Do what?” she asks curiously.

“Invite friends over for a tour of your house and finish the evening off with a roaring fire,” he states in response. “Because if that’s the case,” he adds, pressing his back against the sofa, relaxing against it in an exaggerated manner, “then I feel like I’ve been missing out.” Jughead glances at Betty, grins, and goes back to studying the fire.

“No,” she says, peering up at his silhouette curiously. “I mean, I don’t really do this,” she goes on to explain pragmatically, “and I certainly don’t invite people over when my parents are out.” Her voice trails off as she glances back at the fire to avoid meeting his eyes. With little thought, she stretches her limbs forth, yawning languidly as she settles her back into the sofa.

“Comfortable?” Jughead says good-naturedly, eyeing her.

Betty nods. The briefest flash of a smile graces her lips.

A sound like the hum of an insect and the drip of a faucet begins to cascade in waves above them. The roof, which is several stories overhead, manages to keep the sound fainter than it would normally be if the house was smaller, and, after a little while, Jughead hears it, too – the unmistakable sound of rain. It begins to pelt against the glass windows to the right of the couch.

“I think we’ve got rain,” he says. “It’s going to be a cold day tomorrow, assuming this keeps up.”

“It won’t,” she says assuredly, the colors of the fire now blurring together before her eyes.

“No?” He turns to look at her.

“I saw it on the news earlier,” she explains, fighting off the urge to doze off. “It’s just a light drizzle.”

“Hey, remember that one night you called me from your bedroom closet? You said it was storming and you couldn’t bear to be near your window, and apparently your only recourse against the storm was hiding in your closet – and talking to me, of course.”

When Betty looks at him, she finds that he’s gazing intently into her eyes. “I did not,” she says disapprovingly.

“You did,” he whispers, leaning in a little closer.

A solemn expression flits across her face, if only for a second. “ _Jughead_.”

He knows that expression well. “Hey,” he entreats softly, watching as her head drops – she’s thinking about something, clearly. “Betty.” His voice is a whisper as he ever so gently pulls her chin up to look at him. “What’s wrong?”

The intimacy of the gesture startles her, so she averts her gaze from his. “I was anxious that night,” she admits. “I just needed someone to talk to who wasn’t my mom or dad. You know how that goes.”

Jughead smiles. “I remember,” he says.

Betty doesn’t say anything more. Instead, she continues staring at the fire, reveling in its bright colors.

“Your quiet tonight,” he says. “Something on your mind?”

She can feel herself catching her breath. “Kind of,” she replies.

When she looks at him again, his blue eyes appear larger in the darkness of the room somehow as he peers back at her curiously, waiting for her to say something.

“I was hoping to talk to you tonight,” she says nervously. “It’s about something that’s been weighing on me for a while now.”

Jughead doesn’t take his eyes off her. “Oh?” he asks gently, though he already knows the answer.

Betty’s entire body feels numb at the thought of what she’s about to say, to do. Though, if ever there was an opportune moment to tell him how she _really_ feels – this is as good as any, she reasons. So, she begins to say something – his name – it comes out sounding far more awkward than she intended. Her fear is palpable when she finally looks at him – there’s confusion evidenced on his face. When she finally does speak, though, the sound of her voice – she’s trembling now – is masked by the most unexpected sound of all: _knocking_.

“What on earth!” Betty sits up suddenly as it begins again.

The noise is deafening; it dispels the silence in the room almost immediately, overpowering the sound of the fire. The flames, which are mere wisps of color, continue hovering alongside the stone walls in the fireplace as the banging continues in raucous spurts.

Alarmed, Jughead sits up with a start and glances in the direction of the sound. “Were you expecting someone?” he says aloud, more so for his own benefit than hers. 

“No,” she says emphatically. “Definitely not.” It’s alarming, this visitation – she’s unsure of whether to grab Jughead and hide behind the couch or call the police.

Jughead’s breathing is suddenly erratic. “Are you sure?” he questions, “because that definitely sounded like someone knocking on the front door.”

Before she even has the chance to respond, the knock sounds again – only this time it’s more pronounced, more frantic. Whoever it is – she’s hoping its only one person (safety in numbers as the old adage goes) – they’re growing restless as the two of them delay the inevitable.

Feeling helpless, Betty looks to Jughead for direction. He seems to be thinking the same thing, though, and sighs, tilting his head in the direction of the door.

“We’d better get that,” he says.

“Come with me?”

Jughead nods. “Come on,” he says, holding out his hand to her.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The house is dark in a way that makes everything around them appear dreamlike.

There is a grandfather clock tucked away in a corner of the house somewhere, its presence is only made obvious by the sound emanating from a nearby hallway.

_Tick-tock. Tick-tock._

As they walk in the direction of the front door, hands clasped, their silhouettes intertwine behind them, forming two thin shadows that sweep across the floor.

They take turns exchanging expectant glances as they walk. Neither says a word initially – they’re too afraid to, and neither wants to hear what the other has birthed in their mind as to the identity of the mysterious stranger at the door – because what if it’s worse than the other imagined, initially. What then? But things begin to unravel quickly as they approach the threshold of the door. Almost instantly, Betty recognizes the two silhouettes behind the glass, grimaces, and sighs.

“Betty,” Jughead whispers worriedly, “ _who_ is out there?”

For a moment, a dejected expression flits across Betty’s face. “I think I know who it is,” she says quietly, bracing herself before she lets go of his hand. But as her hand curls around the doorknob, she hesitates before opening it. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she murmurs to herself as she turns the metal handle with obvious reservations.

When she pulls the door open, Jughead’s eyebrows arch and Betty’s eyes widen.

The midnight rain has mostly stopped by now, but it’s still dark outside – so dark, in fact, that Betty is forced to blink twice before she can properly see the two figures standing before her. They are each wearing long, blue peacoats which fall well past their knees – and one of them, the younger of the two, seems to be preoccupied with studying the exterior of the house. Soon, she realizes she’s being watched and turns to look at them. She smiles and looks at the woman beside her.

The older woman’s eyes dart to Jughead. She seems intent on sizing him up and in no time at all her reaction changes to one of disapproval. “Hello, Elizabeth,” she says, pursing her lips together before looking back at her niece. “And who is this?”

“Jughead,” she says softly. “He’s my best friend.”

“I see,” the woman replies.

Betty takes a step back from the door, hoping to put some distance between them as Jughead stares at them incredulously.

“Well, my dear” the older woman says coolly, “aren’t you going to invite us in?”

.

.

.

.

.

.

“You know, you really should have called your parents before inviting someone over,” the older woman chastises.

“I guess I just didn’t want to be alone here,” she says meekly. “I’m sorry. But were just hanging out in the living room – honest.”

“Oh, Bernadette,” the younger of the pair says, turning to her sister. “I think you’re making a bigger fuss about this than you need to.”

“They were here alone, Eugenie,” she replies.

Eugenie smiles. “They were probably just enjoying the fire in here,” she tells her sister. “Weren’t you, Betty?”

Betty affirms her statement with a quick nod. “That’s all we were doing,” she says. “I promise.”

Jughead, who is unsure of what to say, straightens up and looks at Betty.

“Be that as it may, we will definitely be calling your mother,” Bernadette says. “And Jughead,” the elderly woman turns to look at him.

“I can just show myself out,” he says, attempting to stand up from the couch.

“Not so fast.” She looks at her sister.

“I would send you home, but it’s rather late now and the weather is ghastly. I couldn’t live with myself if I sent you out in that, dear.”

“I’ve experienced worse,” he murmurs to himself.

Betty looks at him.

“I agree, Bernadette. Jughead, you can stay in the guest bedroom until morning.”

“Are you sure?” He looks at them awkwardly. “Because I can just go – _really_.”

“Quite. I think it would be best if you head up there now,” she says. “We’d like to have a word with Betty, if you don’t mind.”

Jughead glances at Betty, who looks at him apologetically, mouthing ‘sorry.’

Unfazed, he jumps up from the couch and heads towards the stairs, listening intently as he walks up each creaking step.

“Oh Betty, what are we going to do with you?”

Betty winces.

Bernadette looks at her sister and sighs.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Jughead slips inside the guest bedroom quietly. He feels the lock click into place as he pushes his back against the door. With the back of his head pressed against it, his eyes turn upwards towards the vaulted ceiling. He sees thick, wooden beams on either side of it and a few dim ivory lights peppering the squares in between them. He sighs and pulls his head down to take in the rest of it. There’s a king-sized bed in the center of the room – it’s not unlike Betty’s bedroom. It has all the trimmings of a cozy room with a view, with the same distinct window and a couple of overstuffed bookshelves. There’s even a clean, linen robe hanging on a hook next to another door – the bathroom, he presumes.

To his right, though, there’s something else: a tapestry.

Jughead goes over to the bed, sits down, and studies it. The tapestry appears to be a woven piece of artwork, medieval style, and written in its center in eloquent script it reads: Where Dreams Abound. Its ornate, blocked lettering is decorated with florals and filigrees all around, with several blue birds that appear to be flying – or resting – upon its sinuous inscription.

He finds the tapestry intriguing but hopes there is more in the room to look at for the remainder of the night. He sighs to himself and decides that he might as well make himself comfortable. So, he kicks off his shoes, sloughs off his jacket, and rests his head against the headboard behind him. He’s full of misgivings about staying, and he half wonders if he shouldn’t just exit the same way he came. The only problem, though, is that the ladder is definitely out of commission for the night.

Then, he looks at the bookshelf to his right. As if resigned to his fate, he grabs a book and settles in for the night, running his hands through his hair as he props his head against a pillow. Then, he cracks open a book – The Old Testament – and begins to read.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Jughead is still reading, lost in the pages of his book, when he hears the door to his room creak open. He peers above its pages and looks up.

Without making a sound, Betty slips inside and shuts the door behind her.

He closes the book and sits up. “So?” he asks. “What did they say?”

“Apparently, my parents didn’t want me to be alone either,” she tells him. “So, they sent my aunts over to check on me. They live in the town over, in Wainscott, in one of those old houses in the Hampton's and now they’re staying here all weekend.”

He sets the book aside. “That’s understandable,” he says. “They’re probably just looking out for you, that’s all.”

Betty walks over to the edge of the bed. “I know, but it was ill timed, nevertheless.”

“How so?”

She kicks off her shoes and sits beside him. “It just was.”

He grins. “Care to elaborate?”

“I was about to tell you something,” she says quietly, “right before the doorbell interrupted me. It was important.”

“We’re talking now,” he tells her.

She looks at him.

“You’re making me nervous,” he says. “What is it?”

“I think you know and you’re playing coy with me,” she tells him.

“Know what?”

Betty shuts her eyes. “That I like you,” she whispers under her breath.

He raises his eyebrows and grins. “ _That’s_ what you wanted to tell me?”

She nods. “I was trying to work up the courage to tell you earlier.”

Jughead grabs her hand and holds it in his. “Since we are being honest here, I suppose I have something to confess as well.”

“You do?”

“Betty, I have liked you since the day I met you,” he says quietly, “maybe longer, if that’s even possible.”

When their eyes meet again, she smiles. “Really?”

He nods. “So,” he says, like it’s no big thing at all, “now that we’ve got that out of the way, I was in the middle of reading a really good story.” He feels around for the book with his free hand. “Care to join me?” he asks. “I can read it to you if you would like.”

“Okay,” she whispers uncertainly. “But my aunts?”

“Can check on us anytime,” he says. “I don’t think they’ll mind us reading a book.”

Betty takes a moment to consider it. “I suppose not.”

“They trust me,” he adds assuredly.

“How can you tell?”

“Because they said I could stay. Besides,” he says, “you do realize that they probably saw you skirt across the hallway and come into this room, right? The entire front part of the upstairs is an open floor plan…” he says, his voice trailing off.

“Oh.” Betty grins. “I hadn’t considered that.”

He grabs a pillow beside him. “Here,” he says, offering it to her.

Betty settles beside him easily, resting her head against the pillow she places behind her, which is pressed against the headboard.

“Now,” he says, thumbing through the pages of the book, “where was I?”

“What book is this anyways?” she asks, peering at its cover curiously.

He smirks. “Your biography,” he replies matter of factly, not meeting her eyes.

“What!” Betty sits up. “Let me see!” She grabs the book from his hands and flips the cover over. Then, she reads the title of the chapter, _The Book of Ruth_ , and stares at him. “How is this my biography?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to,” he teases. “Now,” he says, taking the book from her, “I was at the part where the main character is falling hard and fast for the young woman in the field.”

“Oh.” She can feel herself turning red.

“Any other questions?”

She shakes her head, thinking about other things as he begins to read it again. Then, she realizes there is just one more thing she wants to ask him.

“Hey, Jughead?”

“Hm?” His eyes meet hers.

“Did you mean what you said earlier?”

“Did you?” he replies.

She nods.

“Come here,” he says quietly, holding his arm out to her.

Betty grabs another pillow beside her and leans into his side; she cuddles up to him and he wraps his arm around her shoulders.

“Now,” he says, “where were we?”

“The part where the young woman from the threshing floor sneaks into the man’s dwelling place late into the night because she decides she can’t be without him _ever_.”

“And what happens next?”

“She proposes to him,” she whispers. “Then they get married.”

His eyes are soft as he looks down at her. “Right.”

Betty grins. Then, as he begins to read aloud, she tilts her head just a little, sighs, and shuts her eyes.

Just above their heads, if one were to look at the view from the top of the window, they would see the moon and the edges of the roof as they glow beneath it.

The trees alongside the tired estate are rustling in the breeze overhead as it rains. _Pitter, patter. Pitter, patter._ The light, which is normally absent on either side of the house, has chased away all traces of darkness, even the shadows beneath the bases of the trees. And the house, for a change, appears bright on every side, and at its center, there’s a shining silhouette – the shadow of a young man and a young woman reading.

Almost overnight, the house has become a safe haven – a space of comfort and protection, covered and basked in light, with golden embers hung about the windows.

And lush trees and beautiful foliage and blooms, with verbenas and green grasses around its edges.

Pulled out of the muck and mire and placed into the center of light.

With wings to cover it on every side.

And a rooftop made of gold, filled with the promises of tomorrow that will surely come to pass.

As the dreamer’s dreams take flight – together. 

Travelling through the center of gravity.

Through the autumn sky.

And the house isn’t a shadow anymore.

Instead, it’s a home.

_____

_**Fin.** _

**Author's Note:** Please do not distribute this story without acknowledging who the author is (me, TMG).

(Or repost w/o permission). Thanks! 


End file.
